Tales of the Pretty Committee
by perfectpro
Summary: They're perfect, believe them. They're not falling apart at the seems like last year's Prada coat.


Massie Block is perfect — according to everyone.

Everyone thinks you're p-e-r-f-e-c-t.

They don't know that your P*E*T is your only true companion.

They don't know that you hate _eachandeverysingleone_ of them.

They don't know that you're in l/o/v/e with someone you gave up on long ago.

They don't know that you trust **n o n e**.

They don't know how when you cry, you stand in the shower so that the tears are totally

[u] [n] [r] [e] [c] [o] [g] [n] [i] [z] [a] [b] [l] [e]

They don't know that you've burned every tissue that's held your t e a r s.

They don't know that you're a.s.h.a.m.e.d of everything and everyone.

They don't know that your heart just isn't in it anymore.

They don't know that your eyes glisten all because of your t/e/a/r/s, not sparkle just

because of your a/m/b/i/t/i/o/n.

They don't know that your only fear is of _crashing&burning_ in front of others.

They don't know that you've never wanted to be perfect.

They don't know that you only want to be the person they want you to be.

They want you to be perfect, and you play your part to the best of your ability.

They don't know that you cry every night

But you do.

You're _broken_, not perfect.

You're a **tragic, torn, scared** person of the girl they all want to see.

Alicia Rivera is beautiful — according to everyone.

Everyone thinks you're b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l.

They don't know about the {razor} that lies in your dresser.

They don't know about the s:c:a:r:s that grace your apparently beautiful arms.

(You stopped wearing short sleeves a _**l o n g**_ time ago.)

They don't know that you don't l/o/v/e your boyfriend even though you say you do.

They don't know that you s m i l e every time you wipe the blood away.

They don't know your only c~o~m~f~o~r~t~s are s c a r s and r a z o r b l a d e s and the

fear of rejection that never seems so s|c|a|r|y as it does when you're standing in front of

your boyfriend of two years.

They don't know about the p.i.l.l.s you take to get to sleep.

They don't know about the things in your medicine cabinet: shotgun, razorblade, sleeping

pills, pain killers, and ^everything^ else they told you to say away from.

They don't know you love being (pained) where everyone can see it but no one does.

Of course, they don't know that you're {pained}, because no one sees it.

They don't know how you wipe your eyes when you put the [blade] away.

They don't know that you laugh before pressing the blade into your tan, tropical, and newly s*c*a*r*r*e*d skin.

But you do.

You're _pained_, not beautiful.

You're a **messed up version** of the person they expect.

Claire Lyons is innocent — according to everyone.

Everyone thinks you're i-n-n-o-c-e-n-t.

They don't know that you're the blonde girl in the short dress at the c|l|u|b|s.

They don't know what you drink when you're pained (a gin and tonic with a small rum

and coke, p l e a s e and t h a n k y o u).

They don't know the name of the last person you k.i.s.s.e.d (&apparently neither do you,

thanks for asking).

They don't know who you are underneath your childlike exterior.

They don't know who you love (you barely remember his name in the drunken stupor).

They don't know about any of the kinds of things you've been told to try (&now have

tried, all thanks to them).

("Go on, try it. It won't hurt you. We won't let anything hurt you...")

They don't know that they're liars (or maybe they do and it's just always been this

confusing and maybe it's always made you want to smash your head in).

They don't know the only reason you pay a stranger to take you home, is because you

don't want any scratches on your precious car if you get into an accident.

They don't know that you've _never_ been innocent.

They don't know that you've g/r/o/w/n up.

But you have.

You're _wicked_, not innocent.

You're the **girl that no one likes**, so you keep up your façade.

Kristen Gregory is strong — according to everyone.

Everyone thinks you're s-t-r-o-n-g.

They don't know about the hours you spend in the gym, working on your c h a r a d e.

They don't know about the secrets (_shhh!_) you keep.

They don't know how you've sold you soul to the **d**_e_v**i**_l_ more than once.

They don't know how hard you work to _make it work_.

They don't know that your well built up muscles are [deteriorating].

They don't know about the mistakes that you always make.

They don't know about how you b*l*i*n*k when you lie.

They don't know about the way you ditch your so called f r i e n d s to work on your

newest a.l.i.b.i that you'll need next week.

They don't know about the !lies! you've lead.

They don't know about how soccer practice is just an excuse to get out of something.

They don't know about how you run your finger through your hair when you're worried.

They don't know about the things you keep secret.

They don't know how you have separate lives.

They don't know that you're worried that one day they'll collide.

They don't know that you scared of the truth.

But you are.

You're _secretive_, not strong.

You're a **more mysterious** person then the person they want you to be.

Dylan Marvil is fat — according to everyone.

Everyone thinks you're f-a-t.

They don't know about the diet pills you shove in _yourpurse,yourpocket,yourmouth_.

They don't know how you smile when you step on the scale and realize it's d/o/w/n.

They don't know what size you a:c:t:u:a:l:l:y wear.

They don't know that you use a l.o.w c.a.l.o.r.i.e sweetener.

They don't know that you cry when the scale goes _upupup_.

They don't know that when you eat, you miss your mouth on purpose ("Whoops, another

bite of sushi onto the floor! Curse my clumsiness!").

They don't know how your fingers have found their way to the back of your t h r o a t

more than once in a day.

They don't know that you look through the calories on anything before you eat it.

They don't know that you have an automatically tendency to eat the [D] [I] [E] [T] foods

before anything else.

They don't know that your mother wants you to go down {yet another} size.

They don't know that you a g r e e with her about it.

They don't know that you r/e/a/l/i/z/e you have a problem.

They don't know that you're p.r.o.u.d of this problem.

They don't know that you're proud of this control.

But you are.

You're _skinny_, not fat.

You're a **smaller** version of who they think of.

The Pretty Committee is together — according to everyone.

They think the PC is t-o-g-e-t-h-e-r.

They don't know that Dylan is one more missed bite of f o o d away from anorexia.

They don't know that Kristen is one s e c r e t away from living a life of lies.

They don't know that Claire is one d r i n k away from becoming practically a hooker.

They don't know that Alicia is one s c a r and one last gush of b l o o d away from death.

&they'll never know that Massie Block is just one t e a r away from breaking down.

But the Pretty Committee is _**c/r/u/m/b/l/i/n/g**_.

Too bad {no one} can see it.

_Orcanthey_?

The social ladder is shaking, and it's threatening to push them off of the top.

They've held onto their reign for so long, but it's time for someone else to take a seat.

They've clawed their way to the top, only to be pushed down to the bottom of the pit.

(But Massie isn't letting go of her p r i d e & d i g n i t y for nothing.)

They're being held together by knotted strings and half-held truths.

The Pretty Committee is _separate_, not together.

They're a world away from the team e v e r y o n e [loves] to {hate}.

Oh, how the **m.i.g.h.t.y** have _f a l l e n_.


End file.
